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Ah, no. For one thing, I'll never be a T, for another I would get really resentful about having to take care of him. He's supposed to take care of me dammit!
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'...
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds,)
...'
Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue
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